Two ships in the night (passing closely)
by bemusedbicycle
Summary: She doesn't know how to apologize for seducing his drunken past-self except to, well, seduce his drunken current-self. Silly, drunk smut.


He doesn't bring it up often - actually, he only brings it up twice - but still, she can see the hurt flash in his eyes - the idea that she almost had _something_ with a version of himself that he is loathe to remember - that a man he spent so long repressing was able to get more of her affections than _him. S_he knows it eats at him in a way that isn't _right_ or _fair, _even after she's given him more than anyone else before. She can see the way panic seizes his features for the briefest of moments before he fixes a cheery grin on his face, distracting her with his lips on hers or a careful brush of his hand through her hair.

She doesn't know how to apologize for seducing his drunken past-self except to, well, seduce his drunken current-self.

Tit for tat, and all that.

He catches on quickly, the smug _idiot_, and the smile that turns the corners of his lips as she pours him _another_ shot in the quiet of the empty loft is enough to make her chest swell and burst. One eyebrow arches as he throws the liquor back and her chuckle is rough and quiet, her fingers already inching up his thigh.

He's giving her that same look - surprised and aroused and blue, _blue_ eyes.

(_What are you boys playing?_)

She takes a careful swig from the bottle because this is not some life-altering mission, this is just him and her and _them_ and she deserves this - deserves to get drunk with her - whatever he is (boyfriend is too small because he is her home and happiness and love and light and _boyfriend _isn't nearly enough).

They easily finish one bottle and open another and she is just starting to worry about their combined alcohol tolerance when he slumps forward heavily on his stool. He runs his fingers along her collarbone and noses at her neck, lips parted and _jesus - _it's pure heat shooting through her veins, pricking at her fingertips with white-hot sparks.

Now she knows what it feels like to be consumed by him - under him as he takes her slow and deep, above him rocking her hips in time with his stilted breaths. She knows what he likes and how he likes it and she anchors her fingers in his hair, pulling lightly and smiling at the grunt in response.

"I know what you're doing." He slurs and maybe he had more than her because his eyes are bleary and his movements are clumsy as his fingers slide slower, hand cupping her breast. She arches into his touch and he pulls her stool closer with his hook - metal screeching against wood in the stillness of the kitchen.

"Is that so?" She hums as his teeth nip at the hollow of her throat, thighs spreading to accommodate his body, warm and solid in front of her. His grin is wide and loopy as he peers up at her from under his lashes.

"You're trying to take advantage of me." He touches his finger to her nose to enunciate his point and it's so charmingly sweet and familiar that she _aches_, smile splitting her lips. He tilts his head to the side, eyes tracing over her features like he's memorizing her and she feels _warm_ - cherished in a way that was missing the last time, with the other version of himself. He gestures between their bodies with a flick of his wrist. "Can't say I mind it, love."

She leans forward until their noses are brushing, lips grazing. "What's wrong, Captain? Can't hold your rum?"

He jolts against her, leaning back slightly to search her eyes. His eyebrows furrow in confusion and he frowns, fingers twisting idly with a lock of her hair.

"Not only can I hold it," He mutters and it's impossible, he was already on his ship by then, far out of reach of hearing and - "But I can carry it right out the door."

He grins suddenly, wide and wicked and a million other things that make her thighs clench in sweet anticipation. His arm slides around her back and he hauls her into him, chests crashing together, her stool clattering to the ground as she falls into his lap (because she is definitely tipsy and his hand on her skin where her shirt has ridden up feels _good_ - making her head spin in a decidedly different way).

"I remember you." He breathes and then his lips are over her own, bruising and strong and a bit messy as their mouths slide and twist, her body pressing further into his, fingers scrambling for purchase against his shoulders. His own hand slides fully under the hem of her shirt, tugging on it with a whine and _okay_ - looks like he's not wasting any time, his movements agitated as he doesn't even wait for her, just tears her shirt over her head and throws it across the room.

"That's more like it." He whispers and he yanks the cup of her bra down, closing his mouth over her puckered skin and sucking - rough and wet and warm and _god_ -

"Bedroom." She mutters on a moan. "Please, bedroom."

He groans in what she assumes to be agreement because he doesn't tear his mouth away from her breast, licking and sucking on her peak until she feels the echo of it between her legs, thrumming with a liquid heat that is unbearable. He stands shakily from the stool and stumbles, hand and hook beneath her thighs and she hold onto him with a shriek. He chuckles, blue eyes bright and hooded as he walks them backwards.

"I've got you, lass." His hand slides against her ass and squeezes and she takes the opportunity to rid him of his shirt, dancing her fingers down his neck and across his warm skin. He pauses in his journey to her bedroom and presses her (throws her, really, the god damned pictures shake and fall) against the wall, pushing into her lips with a deep, grumbling moan that vibrates against her chest. She arches and pants, desperate and needy and -

They tumble to the ground in a twisted heap when his foot slips (he is so damn drunk its hysterical, the sound that leaves his lips when they make impact a cross between a snort and a harrumph and this is _definitely_ the best idea she's ever had) but he doesn't even pause in his ministrations, hauling her body towards him with a hook in her belt loop. She slides against the hardwood shaking with laughter but abruptly stops when he pushes down over her, hips grinding right _there_, his length thick and hard right where she needs him through the material of their pants.

"Here will do just fine. Don't you think, Swan?" She _would_ answer but his fingers are deftly undoing her jeans, sliding under her underwear and finding her wet and wanting. He curses into her neck and she spreads her legs wider, hooking one ankle behind his knee and _pulling_ as he slips two fingers in.

She presses against him as he plays her is rough, quick jerks and it's almost embarrassing how quick he has her on the edge. "You're so wet." He growls and _oh god_ - her normally isn't a talker (shocking considering how much he loves his own voice) but the alcohol must be having some extra sort of benefit, his whispered words caressing her flushed skin. His teeth tug her bra down around her waist (twisted and ruined - probably) and then his lips are sucking with determination, cheeks hollowing as he stares up at her, devious grin on his face.

She can just feel the starting flutter, her thrum of magic beneath her skin rising and cresting, when he pulls away. He pants above her - flushed cheeks and wild hair and shining eyes- fingers still slowly pumping.

"I want you." He sighs. He tilts his head to the side in silent consideration, withdrawing his fingers and yanking at her pants. She kicks them off and then she's bare before him, under him, her own hands shaking as she pulls at the laces of his leathers.

(He _still _wears them - stupid idiot.)

He groans when she finally frees him, and immediately hitches her leg around his hip, sliding home in a uncoordinated move that's more luck than finesse. The fullness is overwhelming, and he doesn't give her a moment to _breathe_ before he's moving - strong and deep and solid.

"Gods." He mutters and she arches against the floor, the heat growing, coiling tighter. He leans back on his knees and teeters to the side briefly before righting himself, thrusting into her in earnest. She keens because he's hit _that spot_ - that _delicious_ spot that causes her to see the light, so to speak - and it shouldn't be _fair _how good he is at this, even three sheets to the wind.

"I love your hair." He groans, dropping his head back and clenching his fingers against the jut of her hip. He's being rougher than he normally is and she _revels _in it, will trace her fingers over the blossoming bruises with memories of heat and lust and desire.

"So shiny." He continues. "So bright."

He's muttering nonsense but she can't really bring herself to care because his hook is pressing against her clit and she is coming violently, the cold metal against her heated flesh _everything_. She pants and writhes beneath him and he moves faster, pushing her higher and hotter with each rough thrust of his hips. He finally stills above her with a low growl, rolling his body into hers, and collapses into her neck with a heavy sigh.

She presses a kiss to his skin, breathes in the rum and spice and _him_.

"Bed?" She mutters, but her eyes are already drifting shut, his solid warmth on top of her and the_satisfaction_ humming in her bones lulling her into darkness.

"S'here good." He grumbles and sighs, pressing further down into her.

(She wakes to a very confused Killian, her body _aching _as he blinks rapidly at her with squinted eyes.

"What the bloody hell are we doing on the floor?"

He looks down at himself and then her. "Where the bloody hell are our clothes?")

(She grins.)


End file.
